


It Falls Apart For You To Mend (A Little More Action)

by disbelief11, luninosity



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Karaoke, M/M, Music, Post-Movie(s), Presents, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disbelief11/pseuds/disbelief11, https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, the Epic Erik/Charles Karaoke Reconciliation Fic. Yep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Falls Apart For You To Mend (A Little More Action)

**Author's Note:**

> Opening and closing tags from the Foo Fighters’ “Up In Arms”. Title also from “Up In Arms,” and subtitle from Elvis’s “A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Action.” The songs whose lyrics we’ve quoted come, in order, courtesy of Johnny Cash (“Ring Of Fire”), My Chemical Romance (“Summertime”), The Fratellis (“Whistle For The Choir”), and Queen (“My Best Friend”). We really wanted to subtitle this one “Dangerous, Explosive, Pineapple-Flavored Love,” for reasons which will become evident if you indulge us and read, but we exercised restraint...

_the rain is here  
and you my dear  
are still my friend  
it's true the two of us  
are back as one again_

   
Magneto levitates the microphone and stand to where he's been sitting in the darkened club. The singer and piano player look like they might have something to say about their equipment sailing away, but when their eyes trace the path from the microphone to his face, they experience an obvious change of heart.

The microphone wobbles a bit but overall moves fairly directly to him. Which is quite the feat, considering just how many pina coladas he's had.

That's another thing to blame Charles for. He’d used to drink manly cocktails—scotch, martinis, the occasional manhattan—before he’d met Charles. That damn irresistible man and his pineapple fixation! Now, whenever this maudlin mood hits him, he finds himself ordering impossibly girly, fruity drinks, much to his chagrin.

Blinking his eyes to try to shake those thoughts, he takes stock. Drink, check. Helmet, check. Microphone...yes.

"I assume you know this one. Be sure to keep up."

A second or two after more of his damn fruity drink, he begins the song he’d felt compelled to sing. His deep voice almost cracks as he starts. Fitting.

_love is a burning thing  
and it makes a fiery ring  
bound by wild desire  
I fell into a ring of fire_

A few seconds in, the piano player shakes his head and starts playing along. As note follows note, the rest of the club falls silent.

_I fell into a burning ring of fire  
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher  
and it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire  
the ring of fire_

Magneto decides, arbitrarily, to skip the next chorus—hell, he _is_ the Master of Magnetism, so he can do what he damn well pleases. And skipping the repeated chorus pleases him, as does the cloud of cigarette smoke in the club. It seems fitting. It also pleases him to stand up for the next verse.

_the taste of love is sweet  
when MUTANT hearts like ours meet  
I fell for you like a child  
oh, but the fire went wild_

Throwing the microphone to the floor, he stalks from the room. Before anyone there can glimpse the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes.  
 

He wakes up terribly, terribly hungover.

Dear god, he hasn't felt this bad since...well, since the first evening Charles ever introduced him to pina coladas.

He'd laughed, that evening, and sworn that they couldn't be alcoholic at all, nothing with that much sugar could induce even tipsiness, and had rather painfully learned better the next morning, when he'd opened one eye and instantly sworn he'd never mock Charles's drinks again.

Of course he'd broken that promise. He's broken everything else, too, though, so what's one more along the way?

_You haven't broken everything._

_That's not true, Charles--CHARLES?!_ He bolts upright. Instantly wishes he hadn't. With some effort, he makes it to the tiny hotel restroom, at least.

_Sorry. I know--I really do--the morning after is never anywhere near as fun as the night before. Here, I think I can help—_

Abruptly some of the nausea eases. Well, the physical nausea, anyway. Because Charles is doing that for him. Charles is in his head.

Because he--he'd taken the helmet off, hadn't he? Drunkenly, heartsick, sick in general, tasting pineapple and wanting to go to sleep with Charles there next to him, one more time. Just one more time.

Oh god.

_You made the news, you know. Master of Magnetism Conquers Karaoke._

_Oh, god._

_You—was that for me? The song, I mean?_ Charles sounds a little hesitant, a fact for which Erik instantly hates himself. Charles should never have cause to doubt how Erik feels about him. Even when everything else has changed, that much hasn't, at least.

_Of course it was for you. You and your damned pina coladas._ He's not really commenting on the drinks. They both know that much.

_Hmm._

_Charles, I—_ What can he say? I'm sorry? I can't change what I believe for you? I wish that I could? I love you? Is he still allowed to say any of those things?

He kind of wishes Charles would let him throw up again. Maybe that would help with the spinning in his head. Or maybe not.  
   
 _You should probably try to go back to sleep._  
   
The thought of getting up and inching in the direction of the bed is not a promising one.  
   
 _All right. Don’t move, then._  
   
 _I’m fairly certain moving is out of the question, Charles. But thank you._ That last thought might’ve been sarcastic. It isn’t.  
   
 _I—_ Charles stops there, but too late, because the feeling has already bled over anyway, a shared heartbeat of warmth through both their minds. Love. Always love.  
   
No matter what else. Always love.  
   
And at this moment, for this moment, that’s all that matters in the world.  
   
After a second, Charles starts to hum, softly, in his head, and then to sing. And the whisper of tune conjures up memories, Charles baking in the kitchen, cold December mornings made warm by shared affection, Charles blushing but singing for him anyway, when he _knows_ that Erik approves.  
   
It’s not a song Erik knows. But he loves it, anyway.  
   
 _when the lights go out, will you take me with you  
and carry all this broken bone_  
 _through six years down in crowded rooms  
and highways I called home, something I can't know ’til now  
until you pick me off the ground_

_and if you stay, I will either wait all night  
or until my heart explodes  
how long until we find our way, in the dark and out of harm  
you can run away with me _   
_anytime you want_

And he falls asleep again, without moving after all, still curled up on the cold restroom tiles, beside the toilet. To the soft sound of that familiar voice, so very present, so very there. So very real.  
   
   
Erik guesses he's in the field of a pineapple plantation. The spiky leaves of row after row of plants loom like knives in front of his eyes; his ears pick up a recurring beeping. His enemies must have rigged the pineapples with explosives! He struggles to feel the metallic components to disarm them but can't manage it. It's when he tries to flee (retreat, he corrects himself; a leader knows when retreating is the right tactical answer) and finds he can't move that he wakes up enough to realize he's been dreaming.

He peers out through barely opened eyelids and goes cross-eyed at the pattern of tiles just under his face. He is assessing the situation further when he hears beeping again. Of course, his mobile phone. Erik mentally chuckles at himself over the thought of explosive tropical fruit.

Another beep. No one except Mystique has the number, so he should answer it - there might be a Brotherhood emergency. But the dry, swollen feel of his tongue in his mouth keeps him from answering. He might not even be able to talk right now, anyway, as it feels like he's swallowed hot sand.

Sand. Beach. Charles. Oh god. Snippets of last night filter up from the depths of his brain and he groans.

_Exploding tropical fruit, really? Feeling any better yet?_

_Still taking advantage of my lack of headgear, Charles?_ He throws a little bite into that thought as he looks for his helmet. It's not in his immediate line of vision. Unfortunate, that. Or maybe not.

_I…no. No, just worried about you after our earlier conversation. You were quite hungover..._

_It's all your fault,_ Erik thinks petulantly. Damn it, where _is_ his helmet?

And now he feels a warmth, as though Charles is chuckling. _Exactly how can you construe getting exceedingly drunk and doing an impromptu karaoke imitation of Johnny Cash to be my fault?_

Instead of answering, Erik sits up and calls his helmet to him. The spike of pain that goes through his skull distracts him, however, and the helmet clunks to the floor a few feet from the bathroom door. Damn.

_Those devilish pineapple drinks can only be your fault, Charles. Wait, did you sing to me earlier?_ He rather hopes he remembers that correctly. As much as he may not deserve it, he wants Charles to sing to him, for him, and yes, even with him.

A smiling voice comes through. _Yes, I did sing for you. Just as you sang for me._ There's a wistfulness now: _I'd sing to you more often if you'd let me, Erik. I miss you._

Erik doesn't bother to respond. Instead he looks over at the helmet, only to have a shaft of sunlight bounce off its curved surface and into his eyes. Wincing away from the menacing glare, he thinks Johnny Cash had it right in more than one way.  
   
 _Perhaps you'd feel better if you showered? I know I usually feel much, much better after removing the cigarette smoke from my hair and skin._

_You don't have hair anymore, Charles._ I'm also the Master of the Obvious, he thinks. But Erik's statement is meant with warmth. He loves Charles with or without hair.  
   
 _I miss my hair_ , Charles says plaintively. _Why do you get to have hair? I miss your hair, too. We used to have such good hair, and now I don’t have any and you cover yours up._

_Trying to con me into keeping my helmet off for longer, Charles? I'm becoming suspicious of your intentions. Do you have some of your X-Men on the way to take me out while you distract me?_ A thought niggles at his brain. _How did you know I smell of cigarettes, anyway?_

_Hmm, you must not remember when I told you that your performance - thank you for singing to me, by the way, that was sweet - had made the news. I could see the haze of smoke in the video._

_...video?_ Curse Charles and his fruity drinks again! Yet another indignity to suffer. Of course, this one was self-induced, and yes, he'd gladly sacrifice himself for Charles, but still.

_Ah, yes. You might not want to look at YouTube or Tumblr for a while._

Shite. Well, if he's going to have to face the other members of the Brotherhood after this, he may as well be clean for it. Charles is right - he'll feel much better after washing his hair. Besides, it looks more imposing under his helmet when it’s clean and full...like a lion's mane.

Still thinking of his impending humiliation, he's surprised by the sensation of lips between his shoulder blades as he steps under the hot water.

He almost falls over, at the phantom touch. Good thing he still has most of his sharply-honed reflexes, even in his current pathetic state; he manages to catch himself just before his head would’ve encountered the unhelpful wall. _Charles?_  
   
 _Sorry! I thought you knew I was still here._  
   
Erik almost asks why Charles would think that Erik had any clue about his apparent voyeuristic tendencies, but doesn’t. Because he doesn’t actually mind.  
   
He feels Charles grin, hearing that. Neither of them bothers to hide those responses; Charles offers his emotions freely, as ever, and Erik is just too damn tired and it’s so easy to open back up this way, to fall back into the space where he belongs, where they fit together like the only matching puzzle pieces in a disconnected world.  
   
He can still taste pineapple on his tongue. Fleetingly, he thinks about danger. About explosions. About tropical and sandy beaches.  
   
 _Don’t,_ Charles says. _Not now._  
   
 _Charles—_  
   
 _No. Please. I can’t—I can’t go back there yet, with you. Not when we’ve just— I’m not—please don’t ask._  
   
Had he really just been thinking about openness, being briefly glad that Charles still hid nothing from him?  
   
He’d been wrong. And that wrongness curls in on itself and chews its way into his chest, and sits there calmly gnawing on his heart. The worst of it is that Charles is right. Of course Charles can’t talk to him, about that. Of course he should know better than to think that they can still talk about anything.  
   
 _No, it isn’t that. It’s not you. It’s me. Terribly cliché, I know. Sorry. But true._  
   
 _Charles, I’m so sorry._ What has he done to Charles? What can he, possibly, do now? What’s left to be done, after all these years and all the spaces that stretch and gape apart between them?  
   
The too-hot water slides through his hair and across his skin, leaving little burning trails, somewhere between cleansing purification and aching penance. He wishes he could think more clearly, but considering everything that’s happened between last night and this morning, clarity is probably a lost cause.  
   
But Charles hasn’t left. That familiar presence is still solidly there, at the back of his thoughts. And some of those cavernous spaces are, perhaps, not quite so empty anymore.  
   
Charles hesitates, silent for a long minute during which Erik contemplates the horrific physicality of loneliness, and then the invisible lips return and touch his, very softly. _Thank you for that. And I’m sorry, as well. I love you, you know._  
   
 _Charles—_ If a few extra drops of water fall down around his feet, no one will ever know. _I love you, too. I always will._  
   
 _I know._ The kisses drift gently along his throat, over to one ear, down to his chest. Lower.  
   
 _Ah…Charles?_  
   
 _Hmm?_  
   
 _You—what are you—you actually want to—_  
   
Apparently Charles does. Erik almost loses his balance, despite his death grip on the metal shower handrail, when the distant lips wrap themselves around someplace very interesting. _Oh god—_  
   
 _Good?_  
   
 _You—wait, what about you, are you—_  
   
 _Very happy, thank you._ And the image that accompanies that, Charles lying in bed, under lazy late-morning sunlight that turns his skin golden against blue silk sheets, makes Erik groan. Especially when Charles narrows the image to one specific area, and Erik realizes exactly what those elegant hands are doing.  
   
 _Can you feel this?_ Charles inquires, and a spike of absolute pleasure whites out his vision for a second, only it’s not his pleasure, it’s Charles feeling all of that, and sharing it with him. He thinks back, desperately trying to hold onto some semblance of control, an image of his own hands replacing Charles’s, his own fingers moving right _there_ , opening Charles up for him.  
   
He hears Charles gasp slightly. Which would be perfect revenge, except that he’s just pushed himself right to that edge too, and they tremble there together in exquisite anticipation.  
   
 _Erik_ , Charles whispers, and then does _something_ , something in both their heads, and all that sensation focuses into a pure lightning strike, and he can feel Charles around him, himself inside Charles, electric heat as he moves and Charles tries to say _Erik_ again but just catches a single breath wordlessly instead, coming to pieces around his name, and then the whole world turns into fireworks.  
   
After a while he realizes that he’s bent the handrail into a really _strange_ shape. Also, the water’s getting kind of cold.  
   
 _Charles?_  
   
 _Mmm…_  
   
 _Charles._  
   
 _You said that already._  
   
 _I love you._  
   
 _And I love you. And also showers, I think._  
   
 _I should…_ He eyes the soap. Being resolutely non-metallic, it refuses to float over to him and indulge his renewed exhaustion. _Shower. I should shower._  
   
 _Probably…you’ll be needing to face the world soon._ The world. Yes. The media, oh god. The Brotherhood. The helmet. The lack of Charles in his head.  
   
 _Charles, I—don’t go yet. Stay. Just for now. For the shower._  
   
 _I will, then._ He can feel Charles smile, at that request. At the fact that Erik made the request. _Same time tomorrow?_  
   
Erik’s answer, while not verbal, or even suitable for polite company, is decidedly emphatic. And definitely affirmative.  
   
And, as he gives up and reaches for the still unhelpfully immobile soap, he hears Charles start to hum, and then to sing.  
   
 _well, it's a big, big city and the lights are all out  
but it's much as I can do, you know, to figure you out  
and I must confess, my heart’s in broken pieces  
and my head’s a mess…_  
   
And Erik knows this one, at least in parts. So, when Charles hits the next line, he pauses, soap in hand, and leans against the comfortably twisted-up shower rail, and sings along.

_and it's four in the morning, and I'm walking along  
beside the ghost of every drinker here who has ever done wrong  
and it's you—woo-hoo!—  
that's got me going crazy for the things you do…_  
   
   
Magneto blinks. Blinks again, not quite believing what he sees as he enters his private office. Is that really what he thinks it is?  
   
Striding over to his desk confirms it. His eyes aren't failing him yet - there really is an enormous gift basket taking up residence there. With a fondly exasperated sigh, he slowly takes off his helmet and becomes Erik, at least for a short time.  
   
 _Charles, I got your gift_. It could only be from him.  
   
Charles takes his time responding; he must be busy. When he finally answers, Erik swears he can hear a smile on Charles' lips. _Are you certain it's not a cleverly disguised explosive?_  
   
 _Charles. Really, a gift basket?_  
   
 _Well, it has been quite some time since we've been able to...ah, have some time alone...so I thought I'd sweeten the pot, so to speak._  
   
It's true, it's been a while since the last time they'd been "together." Sometimes weeks go by without one of their joint showers. Despite devoting his entire existence as Magneto to securing the rightful place of mutants on top of the evolutionary chain, there are always new enemies to dispatch and new administrative obligations. Charles' schedule mirrors his, he knows, so it's not surprising that they can't regularly carve out the time for...whatever they're doing could be called.  
   
 _Do you like it, Erik?_  
   
 _I’m reserving judgment until I look more closely at it._  
   
 _Go on then, what are you waiting for?_  
   
Charles is incorrigible, thinks Erik. That enthusiasm and excitement are bleeding through the connection just like when they’d first met. And so of course, like clockwork, the twinned snakes of want and aching aloneness that reside in his heart start squeezing too, and Erik isn't sure whether to be unhappy or grateful that he and Charles don't find themselves showering together more often.  
   
 _Erik..._ It's a whisper from Charles at first. _Erik, I know. I'm not denying we've got years of complicated history between us and, no doubt, years of complicated history to come. Can we not still enjoy some time where we're just Erik and Charles instead of our causes?_  
   
If Erik is the Master of Magnetism, Charles is surely the Master of Hope. Erik hopes they've got years left together, hopes those years are not only spent fighting each other's efforts.  
   
 _I hope that too. Now come on, have you opened your gift yet?_  
   
 _It's huge, Charles. It's as though there's a small, cheerful mountain on my desk._  
   
A laugh from Charles. And oh, Erik knows what Charles' mouth looks like when he's laughing, so he imagines surging across the connection to Charles and kissing him breathless. There's a soft moan from Charles in response. Of course.  
   
 _Is that a thank you for the gift, already? You haven't even opened it!_  
   
 _Careful, Charles, your bossy tendencies are showing. Besides, kissing you is a gift too._ Erik wonders if Charles can perhaps somehow sense the blush that accompanies those words. For his part, he can definitely sense Charles’s impatience. _Fine, I'm opening it now_.  
   
Amidst the many folds of tissue paper, Erik finds dozens of bottles of shampoo and conditioner. _Hair-care products? Subtle, Charles, very subtle._  
   
 _That mane of hair, Erik, is glorious. As you well know. Trust me, do not take that hair for granted! Now keep digging in that—what did you call it, a cheerful mountain? I do like that—_ He can _hear_ the amused air quotes around those words; he could be annoyed about Charles mocking his vocabulary, but catches himself smiling instead, because Charles is mocking his vocabulary.  
   
 _There's more in there._  
   
 _I know, Charles, I could feel the metal as soon as I walked in the room._ What Erik calls out of the basket with his power surprises him into a guffaw. _Wherever did you find these, Charles?_  
   
 _...um, I might’ve had them made for you. It's impossible to find soap shaped like vintage microphones and pineapples in stores, you know. The soap maker at the farmers market was happy to custom-make those, though I'm sure she wondered why I wanted her to embed a bit of metal in each piece._ With that, Charles sends him a reminder of that first shower: the post-orgasmic euphoria and lethargy of each of them, the droplets of cooling water contrasted with late-morning sunshine, and Erik's wish that he could simply call the soap to himself.  
   
 _Mmm, that's a good memory, isn't it? But there's still more in there, Erik._  
   
 _...Charles, did you send me a mixtape?_  
   
 _Hm, I suppose I did. Though can it really be called a mixtape when it's loaded on an mp3 player? But yes, the idea was to entice you with song. And soap and shampoo._  
   
 _Charles, there are showtunes on here. And the soundtrack to Grease. And...Barry White._  
   
Erik hears what can only be called a cheeky giggle. _Is my seduction working, then?_

_Always. Despite the soundtrack to Grease. Or are you suggesting that I should woo you in a super-charged classic car?_  
   
 _Well…you do remember the car we used on the recruiting trip…_ Charles sends certain images with that thought. He doesn’t need to; Erik recalls that car all too well. It’s probably never been the same.  
   
Of course, he’s never been the same, either.  
   
 _Neither have I._  
   
Charles offers those words so simply. With such unembarrassed honesty.  
   
And Erik stares at the gift basket, which looks back at him gleefully, bits of tissue paper falling exuberantly onto his previously neatly-ordered desk, and then says, _Charles?_  
   
 _Yes?_  
   
 _If I were to…if I asked you whether…_ He studies the pineapple-shaped soap, and thinks about tropical beaches and Charles asking him for space, away from those memories. _Never mind._  
   
To which Charles says, _You can ask me anything. I mean that._  
   
 _Anything?_  
   
 _If you need to, yes._  
   
 _Do you hate me?_  
   
This provokes a response that can only be described as a mental splutter. _What—no, Erik, of course I don’t—why would you think—I love you, you know that!_ Those last words come out spiked with astonished indignation, so clear that Erik has to smile. He picks up one of the microphone-shaped soaps, and makes it spin in midair, thoughtfully. _I love you, too._  
   
 _I know._  
   
 _Do you?_  
   
 _Yes. I do. Would I have sent you a seductive gift basket if I didn’t?_  
   
 _Well, it might’ve been explosive._ But it hadn’t been. And that first startled response, Charles’s shock at the idea that Erik might be in doubt about his feelings, still hangs in the air like the ever-present warmth of that first shower.  
   
 _Erik…you know…if you wanted to…I do have a rather large shower here. We could…try this in person. If you’d like._  
   
Erik almost drops the spinning soap. _Charles—_  
   
 _Only if you want to._  
   
And Erik shouts _YES_ , and then, _yes, I love you, of course, and I’m sorry, for everything, you know that, you know—_  
   
 _I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come back earlier. I should have. I’ve missed you. I’m…I’m stronger with you, you know._  
   
Erik does know. Because he’s stronger with Charles, too. They fill in each other’s strengths and weaknesses and they never could manage to defeat each other, because they’re a match for each other, puzzle pieces that need each other as a solution.  
   
The single levitating soap has been joined by others, tumbling through the air in silent joy. He hears Charles laugh, seeing them dance, seeing through his eyes.  
   
 _I can be there in twenty minutes._  
   
 _I can meet you in my shower._  
   
 _Fifteen minutes._  
   
 _Perfect! And, Erik?_  
   
 _Hmm?_ He’s not bothering to pack. Everything here belongs to Magneto; he’s ready to be Erik again. For Charles to be Charles, and not Professor X.  
   
He almost leaves the helmet sitting on his desk, but then thinks better of it, crumples it into a ball, and then shreds the ball into tiny metal fragments that drift slowly to the floor. Irreparable. Thank god.  
   
In his head, he hears Charles approving, brilliantly excited and surprised at the gesture and just a bit relieved, under all the delighted laughter.  
   
 _Glad you agree. Were you asking me something?_  
   
 _Oh, yes! I just wanted to say—_  
   
 _I love you!_  
   
 _I love you, too! And, Erik—bring the gift basket!_  
   
He bursts out laughing. Grabs a bag, after all. Packs everything entirely haphazardly, speedily, perfectly. And then runs out the door and steals the fastest motorcycle from the shed, and it is stealing, because they’ve all been assembled by Magneto, not Erik, and Erik doesn’t give a damn.  
   
On the way, he starts to sing, in his head. Charles, when he hears the song, cracks up— _oh, Erik, Freddie Mercury, seriously?_ —and then promptly starts singing along.  
   
 _you're the best friend that I ever had  
I've been with you such a long time  
you're my sunshine _  
_and I want you to know  
that my feelings are true  
I really love you  
you're my best friend_  
   
 _I've been wandering round  
but I still come back to you  
in rain or shine  
you've stood by me  
I'm happy, happy at home  
you're my best friend_

_you're the first one  
when things turn out bad  
you know I'll never be lonely  
you're my only one  
and I love  
the things that you do  
you're my best friend_   
_and oh, you make me live…_   


 

together now  
I don't know how this love could end  
my lonely heart  
it falls apart for you to mend


End file.
